Power in the Blood
by mogue
Summary: When George goes missing, Mitchell's on the hunt, but the reason for George's disappearance is darker than either of them could imagine.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Power in the Blood

Author: mog

Disclaimer: Not makin' money

Rating: PG-13 (swearing & minor violence)

Author's Notes: BBC version. First BH fic. Starts off with much George whomping but as I'm a Mitchell girl, have no fear, he gets his share soon enough. Huge thanks to my awesome beta Annie! Cheers, girl!

_There is power in the blood, justice in the sword_

_When that call it comes, I will be ready for war _

_~Alabama 3~_

The pursuit was simultaneously thrilling and repulsive. To track the smell of blood as it pumped through a moving body excited all his senses, yet the scent of the werewolf's blood made his skin crawl.

Ian Shelby's time as a vampire was a drop in the supernatural bucket—a mere three years. His former life as a thirty-five-year old airline steward came to a crashing halt in more ways than one. A British Airways jet had skidded off an icy taxiway during landing leaving four dead and one undead. Tossed like a doll, Ian had laid in the numbing cold of a grassy field and begged, "Yes" in response to the passenger addressing him. "You're dying. Do you want me to save you?"

His creator was the man who had taught him how to survive, blend in, rise above the lower life forms; in turn, Ian devoted himself to Sheldon Wallace. Sheldon kept his small nest strong. According to him, their trip from Southampton to Bristol was half recruitment/half search and destroy. Ian didn't feel compelled to know reasons—if Sheldon deemed it necessary, it was necessary.

Ian's assignment, along with fledging Andy, was to help locate and grab the werewolf and bring him back to the club. The two had spent the last few hours hanging about the front and back, respectively, of Bristol General Hospital scenting for the lycanthrope. Usually a vampire had to be close to sense such a thing; however, Sheldon taught them that by concentrating, they could focus their detection down a long, narrow field.

Now, under the dull velvet midnight sky, Ian pushed himself up from a bench near the hospital's back entrance and followed their target, watching as the unwary man hitched a backpack over one shoulder whilst apparently attempting to text.

Ian withdrew his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and rang Andy. "Get the car; meet me on Guinea…no, the one _behind_ the hospital."

()()()()()()()()()()

The text reply on George's phone made him smile as he interpreted it. _'Milk, marmtrukl if they hv it, cereal-Copops? SUGR!'_

In answer to the query of what might be needed from the all-night shop on the way home Mitchell had been concise and predictable. The mangled sentence really meant, _'Milk; Marmite cheese truckles if they have them; cereal-preferably Coco Pops but most importantly anything with copious amounts of sugar.'_

For whatever reason, foods high in protein, iron, and sugar helped subdue certain unwanted cravings. They weren't sure if it was a vampire thing or just a Mitchell thing but they didn't care. Whatever helped.

Another chirp had George again dropping his attention downward to look at his phone. _'A sez t'._

"Of course she does," George mumbled as he keyed a single 'k' in reply. "When she does finally leave this world, the blokes running the other side better hope they have a well-stocked larder." He stuffed his mobile back into his jacket pocket. "And mugs. Lots and lots of mugs."

He inhaled a lungful of the chilly night air, relaxing in the background noise of the occasional passing car, and glanced up into the murky sky. For a split second, his brain processed the blinding white flash as fireworks, then came the pain. The blow to the back of his skull drove him to his knees.

His senses tried to process what was happening. The sound of a car engine, the creak of metal. Blackness swallowed the splash of white light and spat out blurred vision as he felt two hands grab fistfuls of the back of his jacket, hoist him to his feet and swing him round toward the street.

He struggled to keep his feet on the ground but the strength of his attacker made it futile. He never saw the punch coming. A second assailant's fist caught him high on his left cheekbone and snapped his head sideways. Stunned, he was barely aware of a hand digging into his jacket pocket.

Instinct compelled George to lash out. A sloppy right jab connected with ribs, unbalancing the man who'd punched him, but he didn't have the chance to capitalize on the hit. From behind, hands dragged him back and flung him into the car's boot. The back of his head connected with the boot lid and again his vision exploded briefly with white stars. The last thing George saw before the lid slammed him into darkness was two sets of glassy black eyes.

()()()()()()()()()

The glowing red from the car's tail lights offered George a target in the tight confines of the boot.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" He frantically kicked at the tail light near his feet while banging hard against the boot lid in desperate hope. "Ow! What the hell!"

The outside of his left hand scraped against something sharp near the boot latch just as the toe of one trainer connected with the tail light, smashing its housing and causing more blackness to encroach on him. "Bloody stupid bloody vampires! I HATE VAMPIRES!"

Panic pressed against him, forcing his breath to jump in and out of his lungs. Dizziness and a tingling in his hands and feet set off an alarm in the part of his brain that housed medical knowledge. Hyperventilating would not help his situation.

"Okay, okay, stop, think. Breathe. Breathe. Innnnn…Ouuuuut."

Watery eyes, lost glasses, darkness and the bleeding lump at the back of his head made his vision blur. His hands scrabbled around the small space, searching for a weapon, but he wasn't surprised to find the boot empty. At that moment, he realized his phone had been pulled from his pocket and his backpack was probably lying on the sidewalk of Guinea Street.

'_Shit, my wallet's in there.'_ A weak laugh escaped George's lips as he considered the reality that it would be a miracle if he ever needed his wallet again. _'Well, at least I know they don't want me for a drink.'_ Fear tightened his stomach. _'Probably just a good ol' fashioned punk stomp.'_

"No," he said aloud. "Not gonna be their bloody bit of fun."

With the second tail light directly in front of his eyes, George made quick work of ripping at the wires. It was a long shot but if a police car should happen to see a vehicle without rear lights it would certainly result in a stop. He briefly closed his eyes. _'Resulting in them being killed as well. Brilliant, George.'_

He rubbed one hand hard across his eyes, as if it could wipe away the pain and fear that filled his head. He scooted forward to peer through the tail light hole. Whilst street signs escaped his vision, it was evident they kept to surface streets.

George closed his eyes and speculated how long he'd be dead before Mitchell and Annie wondered where their groceries were.

()()()()()()()()()

The pounding in his head spread from the wound at the back to both temples and held his brain in a vice. They hadn't traveled far enough to go outside of Bristol but that also hadn't given George's body time to recover.

Now the car had come to a stop and the sound of slamming doors sent adrenaline surging through him. He shifted in his tiny prison, brought his knees to his chest, and waited for the sound of a key sliding into the boot's lock.

From outside, a muffled voice whinged petulantly, "That filthy mutt busted me lights out. OY!" Brutal banging on the boot lid forced George to clamp his hands over his ears until the lid popped open.

Despite the pounding in his battered head, he kicked out, catching one of the vampires in the stomach and pushing him back into his companion. Off-balance, the two bounced against each other, tumbling like bowling pins.

George scrambled from the boot and sprinted for an alley that revealed street lights at its end. A sharp jerk backwards nearly pulled him off his feet. He could feel two hands locked into the fabric of his jacket and, like a fish on a hook, he flailed against the hold. With two quick twists, he spun out of his coat, leaving the vampire behind him holding nothing but fabric.

The manoeuvre, however, took its toll. The pain in his head exploded into dizziness and the alley tilted violently. His legs tried to compensate for the sudden loss of equilibrium but with little success. George stumbled, scrabbling with one hand for the alley wall, before crashing to the ground.

The first kick hit him in the chest and pushed the air from his lungs. He could feel his body struggling to draw in oxygen, which was when the second kick came, straight to the stomach. His muscles tightened as his body curled protectively inward. A rushing wave roared through his ears, briefly deafening him and adding to the panic before his lungs finally were able to pull in air.

"Stupid fuckin' dog!"

"Andy, lay off! Help me get him up. Sheldon's waiting."

George could hear his attackers' heavy breathing as they lifted him by his upper arms and dragged him back to the rear of the building. Nausea roiled the half-digested sandwich in his stomach and it was all he could do to keep down the sick while they hauled him through a heavy metal door and down a set of wooden stairs.

()()()()()()()()

Mitchell shifted his grinning face from the TV screen to Annie, who sat beside him on the sofa. "I do so love that dog."

The black and white images from "After the Thin Man" showed a white wire-haired fox terrier chasing a black Scottish terrier from his yard before filling in the hole under the fence to thwart a return.

Mitchell pointed at the screen. "Ya see, that's how it's done. Asta knew what it was all about—protecting yer family. Don't take no guff from nobody."

Annie showed a half-grin. "Looks like Mrs. Asta didn't mind taking a bit of guff from that dog that just got chased off." The previous scene had indicated one black puppy amongst a group of obviously white.

"Well," Mitchell conceded, "you can't really blame her, can you? Ladies pretty much swoon at the feet of those dark, mysterious-type fellas." He flashed a smile and a wink but couldn't hold the self-important expression, especially when Annie answered.

"Did you really just use the word swoon?"

Mitchell focused back on the TV. "You young kids today, no respect for the English language."

"Perhaps I was _swooning_ too much during my classes to retain anything." After a moment of silence, Annie spoke again. "You all right?"

"Eh?" Mitchell jerked his head toward her, eyes wide.

Annie just raised her eyebrows and glanced at Mitchell's denim-clad leg which, despite his body's deep slouch into the sofa, was quivering with tiny up-and-down bounces.

"Oh. Just, uh…could use a little somethin' sweet. You know." Mitchell leaned sideways to retrieve his mobile phone from the arm of the sofa. "It's been about twenty minutes." He silently calculated—roughly a kilometer walk from the hospital, bit of time in the shop. "He shouldn't be much longer."

"Maybe he's chatting up that little red-headed clerk."

Mitchell tried to suppress a grin. "Which undoubtedly leads to him nervously knocking over some grand display."

"Tins of cat food rolling everywhere," Annie said, showing a full smile while throwing her hands in the air.

Mitchell's grin broke into a laugh. "That clerk'll be lucky if she doesn't lose an eye." He pointed to his phone, now on the sofa cushion beside him. "Should I text him and tell him to use protection-"

Annie cut in, giggling. "Like cotton balls?"

"I was thinking more like wrapping himself head to toe in bubble wrap."

The friends' laughter grew, rising above the TV volume. Annie wiped a bit of moisture from one eye and let out a sigh to subdue her giggling.

"I'm sure he's quite safe," she said. "As long as he's not making any sudden movements."

()()()()()()()()()()()

George's brain had tried to record what it could as the vampires dragged him down the stairs, along a dim hallway, and into an empty concrete room lit with a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Several times he'd stumbled but the hold on his upper arms only tightened. Deep in the back of his mind a voice screamed at him to fight back, but it seemed muffled and his body wouldn't react to the order.

"Use these. Secure him over there."

A new voice accompanied the sound of metal clinking against metal before George was jerked to the back of the room. He felt a thick pipe running vertically at his spine and his arms pulled behind him but it wasn't until a cold metal ring locked around one wrist that the screaming voice in his mind raised the fight-or-flight reaction.

George fought against the handcuffs. His head whipped up but the room tilted and his knees gave way. He felt the cuff lock around his other wrist and as he slid down onto a wide cement ledge his chin hit his chest. The nausea surfaced again and he swallowed hard to suppress it.

Very slowly he raised his head to take in his surroundings. Three men stood in the center of the room. George had heard two names—Sheldon and Andy. It seemed obvious which was which.

The one he pegged for Andy was a wiry youth, late teens-early twenties, blonde hair slicked into a messy rockabilly pompadour. The skinny-leg jeans he wore were spotted with ink pen graffiti and while a cheap, black leather jacket hid most of a black t-shirt, the band name 'The Damned' was evident.

"Ian, get the door." This from the one he guessed was Sheldon.

George didn't feel much triumph in knowing the names of his captors but at least he figured out the pecking order. Andy was bottom. Sheldon, a salt-and-pepper haired man with a line-etched face and clothed in various layers of grey light wool, had a serious dark air about him-definitely at the top. Ian struck George as a smart enforcer, tall and lean; his movement was fluid as he crossed to the door to close it.

"Anyone see you come in?" Sheldon asked.

"No one out there," Ian said. "We came right down the stairs. Sounded like there were some people in the main room but the curtain was drawn so nobody saw us."

Sheldon's once-human blue eyes settled on George and studied him unblinkingly. George was sure they all could hear the wild pounding of his heart but he stared back.

A split second of a wrinkled nose preceded Sheldon addressing his captive. "You've probably never been to a tasting room." The hint of a smile tugged up one corner of his mouth. "But you know it's always good to experience new things."

George's mind raced. None of this made sense. This clearly wasn't just a night for a wolf bashing, and while he'd never heard of a tasting room the name implied enough, which should rule him out. Vampires were repulsed by even the smell of werewolf blood.

He wanted to say something. Something cool and collected and very James Bondian, but all that came to mind was, _'What do you want!'_ He figured even that would come out in a stuttered heap so he kept a lock on his mouth.

Sheldon glanced at Ian while walking to the door. "McCallan should be here soon, I'm going up to watch for him." He hitched a thumb in George's direction. "If he gives you any trouble, just start breaking fingers."

George watched the metal-plated door close behind Sheldon and sensed he was totally and uttered buggered.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N Thanks for following! Thanks again to best-beta Annie! If you like it, tell your friends and don't be shy about leaving feedback.

* * *

_the man whose legs buckled under exertion kept on running_

_the man whose ears rang with the sound of his own name kept on listening_

_hair of the dog…hair of the dog_

_~ Bauhaus~_

From the TV Myrna Loy and William Powell volleyed humorous banter but for Mitchell it only bounced about the living room as droning noise. He tried to shrug off the creeping worry when his _'U get lost?'_ text from a minute earlier remained unanswered.

At the same second he'd hit 'send' Annie pushed herself up from the sofa and crossed to the window. A moment later, when Mitchell's call to their friend only got him George's voicemail, he mimicked Annie's movement. He stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder to comfort them both, and glanced over the top of her head to the quiet street.

With a quick squeeze to the ghost's shoulder Mitchell headed for the door. He tugged on his boots and leather jacket and pulled open the door before looking back at Annie.

"Maybe I'll just hit the shop," he said.

"Yeah." Annie didn't have to vocalize what she was really thinking. The worry was etched into her furrowed brow. "Be…."

Mitchell sensed she was about to say 'Be careful' but by saying that it would mean something had happened to George. And neither of them wanted to face that thought.

"…back soon," she finished.

Mitchell nodded and knew his own fear showed on his face. "Right."

He jumped down the front steps and was aware of Annie watching his back as he jogged toward the hospital.

()()

The light from the all-night shop encouraged Mitchell to quicken his pace. He yanked open the door, half-expecting to see George at the counter, blushing face and shuffling stance, attempting to chat up the little red-headed shop assistant with all the smoothness of a fourteen-year-old boy faced with his first pair of breasts.

His heart sank. From her perch on a tall stool behind the counter, the red-head smiled in recognition at one of her semi-regular customers.

"Hallo, haven't seen you boys 'round in a while. Hope you're not going behind me back with that late night market over on Wells."

Mitchell forced a small laugh. "No, no. So, you, uh, didn't see my mate in here within the last hour?"

"No, it's been a tomb 'round here tonight."

Mitchell was out the door before she finished her sentence.

()()

The soles of his boots slapped hard against the sidewalk as he ran but, despite the speed afforded him by his "condition", Mitchell still felt he couldn't move fast enough.

He sprinted off Redcliff Hill to Guinea Street where the hospital sat, creating its own glow in the late night. Street lamps dropped blobs of pale blue-grey on the pavement and road. With his attention focused on getting to the back entrance of the hospital, Mitchell nearly missed the dark lump on the pavement across the street from him.

It sat in the spotlight of one of the lamps, unassuming and not worthy of the dread with which Mitchell approached it.

"No, no, no," he whispered as he crossed to it and verified what it was. With a tentative hand he picked up George's backpack and scanned his surroundings, desperate for a clue as to what had happened. A glint of reflected light from the street caught his attention and he felt ill.

He didn't even have to get close to identify them—George's glasses. With the backpack now clutched tight to his chest, Mitchell retrieved the glasses from the middle of the street and tucked them carefully into the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

The hospital offered little hope for answers but he ran towards it nonetheless. A minute later he burst through one of the back doors, skidding to a stop at a nurses' station. Mitchell tried to calm himself before addressing the older nurse seated behind the high counter.

"Hey Colleen, seen George tonight?"

"Yeah, he was off shift about an hour ago. Headed home." She nodded in the direction Mitchell had just come from. Her brow furrowed as she watched him. "You all right, doll?"

Mitchell couldn't bring himself to answer. All he could do was release his hold on the backpack in his arms and pass it over the counter. "Could you do me a huge favour and mind this for me?"

"No worries, luv, I'll put it back in the office. Is George all right?"

Again, Mitchell couldn't get an answer out. "Thanks, Colleen! I gotta go!"

He dug his mobile from his pocket as he ran back to where he'd found the backpack. For the fourth time in less than an hour George's voicemail told him to leave a message but Mitchell just disconnected the call to phone Annie. She answered on the first ring.

"George?"

Mitchell's words tumbled out. "I can't find him, Annie! He never made it to the shop, one of the nurses saw him leave work, I found his bag and his glasses in the street, jus' lyin' there in the open. I'm headed back now to the spot but I don't know what's happened, I don't…it doesn't make sense."

"Mitchell, Mitchell!" Annie shouted at him to get his attention. "We'll find him. _You'll_ find him. And…he'll be all right."

In the dark, Mitchell nodded. "Right…right. I'll ring you back if-_when_ I have something."

They signed off and Mitchell found himself in the same spotlight where he'd discovered his friend's backpack. He jammed his mobile into his back pocket and raked his hands through his hair. He needed to find him. _Had_ to find him. It would all fall apart if they lost him.

The night the two of them met, despite the violence inflicted on George by vampires, the newly-turned werewolf had opened himself up to Mitchell. He'd trusted him and, over their months together, set an example for the vampire for how to access the humanity Mitchell so desperately sought and needed.

Frustration and fear welled in him and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes to block out the images flooding his mind. Was it a repeat of their meeting—three against one, George curled against the kicks, his blood spotting the stone wall? But this time Mitchell was too late?

He turned a slow circle, feeling lost. "George. GEORGE!"

Human hearing probably would have missed the whisper that came out of the dark. Human eyes would have dismissed the figure on the edge of the alley as a shadow. "Mitchell."

The vampire froze and zeroed in on the man pressed against the building across the street. He inhaled and recognized the faint scent of the undead. A half of a second was all it took for Mitchell to close the gap between him and the mystery man.

He had the man pinned to the wall before even trying to identify him. When he did recognize the figure in his grip Mitchell was a bit taken aback. "Roger?"

The shock showing on the face of the other vampire didn't lessen. "It wasn't me! I don't know what it's about! I jus' came to find you."

Mitchell eased his grip on Roger's throat. "Find me why?"

"Yer mate, the lyco-"

Emotion flooded through Mitchell and he felt his eyes flash black; Roger gagged as strong fingers again clamped down on his windpipe. "WHERE IS HE?" Mitchell could feel the other vampire shaking but he didn't care. Hands clawed at his arms.

"Mitch'l, please, I'm tryin'…."

After a second Mitchell's vision cleared and he released Roger but kept the space tight between them. The smaller vampire couldn't seem to get the words out fast enough.

"I jus' figured I owed you after you helped me with that thing back in January. I jus' come from The Tin Door, ya know the tastin' place east of here, and I knew you fellas worked at the hospital so I was comin' to find you."

"The point, Roger."

"Right. Earlier these three blokes comes in to The Tin and I hears 'em talkin' to Gabe."

Mitchell's questioning expression prompted Roger to interrupt himself.

"Gabe, he runs the place. Anyways, they say they're lookin' to rent one of the downstairs rooms. I don't know where they's from but one of 'em—a skinny little punk—says, 'We need a place like this in Southampton'. Anyways, the oldest lookin' guy tells Gabe they're waitin' on one more bloke and then a bit after that two of 'em leaves and a bit after _that_ when _I'm_ leavin', I sees them draggin' somebody down the stairs."

He paused, as if scared to finish. "I'm positive it was that… yer friend."

Mitchell's knees slackened and he took a step back, as if distancing himself from the messenger would make the news untrue.

Roger spoke again. "I'm sure he was alive…a little rough 'round the edges, if ya know what I mean, but he was upright and his legs were still workin'. But I didn't think it was right, ya know. I mean, I know he's a wolf and all, but if you like 'im maybe he's a decent sort. So I figured you should know."

Mitchell clapped his hands to Roger's upper arms, unintentionally causing the other man to flinch. "Thanks, Roger." He jogged backwards, calling out as he disappeared in the dark. "I owe you. I owe you."

()()()()

In the small basement room, George realized the shivering that started in the trunk of the car had become harder to control. Thanks to a coffee spill on the way to work, his plaid button-up was balled up in his backpack, wherever that might be. He'd left the hospital in a white t-shirt and his jacket, which was another casualty in this night of one-thousand horrible moments.

At least he had the strange solace of being alone. After Sheldon left to wait for the mysterious McCallan it didn't take his boys long to crave a drink over hanging out in a dank basement. Above him, George could hear the clunks and scrapes of people moving about but the hallway outside remained quiet.

He'd waited barely fifteen seconds after Ian and Andy left before testing the strength of the floor-to-ceiling pipe his arms were handcuffed around. He slammed against it with his back and pulled as hard as the pain at his wrists would allow but to no avail. The sweat he'd generated cooled rapidly, leaving his shirt damp against his back and chest.

For the hundredth time, he scanned the concrete room; however, without his glasses, decent light and the freedom to move about, it generated nothing more than a greater feeling of hopelessness.

The pain in his head had subsided somewhat, but that had been replaced by a feeling in his chest, so deep as to be a physical ache. He slumped back against the pipe.

"I'm sorry guys."

He cursed himself for allowing this to happen. Mitchell and Annie didn't deserve any more anguish in their lives. His unexplained disappearance would wreck the tight, carefully balanced family the three of them had created. It might keep Annie earthbound, and more worrying, it could shatter Mitchell's fortitude.

Mitchell had appeared in George's life and literally saved it. Since that night in the alley, George had hoped by being a solid shoulder for his friend to lean on, he could return the favour.

Mitchell had become his brother, Annie his sister. They'd helped George rebuild a meaningful, laughter-filled existence after his old life had been ripped from him. Annie's little pink house on Windsor Terrace hadn't just become their home; it was their protection against a world that couldn't accept them as they were.

And he'd managed to fuck it up in one fell swoop of not being aware of what was going on around him.

Shivers coursed through his body when his muscles contracted against the cold. Perched on the low cement outcropping that ran the length of the wall he brought his knees up to his chest and laid his forehead on them. He decided to try to rest before his hosts returned. If he had the opportunity, he wasn't going down without the toughest fight he could muster.

()()()()

The alley leading to the spot known to the local vampires as The Tin Door was about what Mitchell expected—long to suppress sound and intentionally dark thanks to smashed lights. He forced himself to walk casually down the alley but his senses were wide open.

The end of the alley opened into a small lot created by the backs of the surrounding buildings. Several cars and a couple of motorbikes were scattered around but it wasn't the vehicles that got his attention. He inhaled and instantly recognized a familiar scent that caused a protective instinct to rise in him.

The jacket was on the ground by the wall. He picked it up and walked into the light of a lamp hanging above the unmarked entrance of The Tin Door. He didn't detect any blood on it but it reeked of fear, anxiety and adrenaline.

He surveyed the lot and one car captured his attention. It was closest to the door, as if parked in a hurry. Both its rear tail lights were smashed out but it was the dark smears on the edge of the boot lid that sent a wave of ice through his body. His hand went slack and George's jacket fell to the ground.

He wet the tips of two fingers with a bit of saliva and wiped at the dark mark. He knew what it would be, and when he brought his hand up, the smell made him swallow down a gag. Not from the fact that it was the blood of a werewolf, but because it was blood shed by his best friend.

"Jesus," he breathed.

Frantically, he scanned the area for anything that would help him pry open the boot. A piece of rebar lay against a wall and within seconds he had it under a ridge of the boot lid. His physical strength popped the lid like a plastic cover. It creaked open but Mitchell had clamped his eyes shut. When he forced himself to look, relief at the sight of the empty boot nearly brought tears to his eyes.

Sobriety clamped back down on him when he detected the small bit of blood on the floor of the boot. He slammed down the lid hard enough for the edge to buckle and create a lock for the one he'd broken less than a minute before.

He crossed to the passenger's side and smashed the window without even bothering to try the door handle. Reaching inside, he flipped the handle to open the door. A blinking light was the first thing that caught his eye. Nestled between the seats a mobile phone flashed notification of messages.

Mitchell didn't bother looking for anything else. He pocketed his best friend's phone and strode toward the entrance of The Tin Door. He didn't realize his hand was shaking until he reached for the door knob. He withdrew it, clasped it tightly with his other hand and pressed them to his lips like a man in prayer.

A second later he released them and shook them out, before dragging them through his hair. The door knob turned easily and as Mitchell entered the club, he begged silently.

'_You best be all right.'_


	3. Chapter 3

_Go see what the boys in the backroom will have  
And give them the poison they name._

_~ Marlene Dietrich ~_

Mitchell crept along the underground corridor and realized there were only three more doors he could check before running out of rooms. As with the previous five empty ones he listened, rapped on the metal-plated door and then pressed his ear to the seam of the door and its frame.

Several seconds of silence passed and he was about to try the handle when a loud, rude answer came from the room.

"If you're waiting for an invite across the threshold you can just PISS OFF!"

Mitchell's voice cracked in shock. "George?" He wrenched the handle and pushed hard against the door, nearly falling into the room as it easily opened.

"Mi-Mi-" The one syllable in a high-pitched voice was all George seemed able to manage as his head shook in disbelief. "What're you—How did you—"

With the door shut behind him, Mitchell reached his friend in three steps. He dropped to one knee and grabbed him in a tight hug. "Jesus, George, we were worried sick. What the hell's going on? I found your pack and the blood and-"

"Too tight." The muffled words came from the face buried in Mitchell's dark hair but it took the vampire a second to interpret the meaning. Forgetting your own strength was rarely a good thing.

"Oh, God, sorry, sorry." Mitchell pulled back, laughing and wiping away tears of relief. Sheer joy lit through him and a madman's giggle escaped. He took George's face in his hands and gently shook his friend's head. "You're all right."

"Ow." George flinched with the shake.

Mitchell instantly released his hold. "Sorry." He noticed the bruise on George's left cheek and winced. "What hurts?"

"Mostly the back of the head."

Mitchell gingerly ran his fingers along his friend's head and felt the large lump and blood-matted hair at the same time George flinched again.

"Ow, yes, that part."

"Sorry," Mitchell said. To prevent causing his friend any more pain he dropped his hands but replaced them on George's upper arms.

When Mitchell first tried to go clean he'd discovered that by wearing fingerless gloves he could mute the heightened tactile sensitivity that came with being a vampire. Fewer sensations meant less stimulus and that helped dampen the energy that led to cravings. This time, however, he sought out the physical contact to assure his mind that his friend really was alive.

"Jesus, you're freezing." Mitchell rapidly ran his hands up and down the icy skin under his fingertips to generate heat. "What're you doing in just this?"

"Kinda lost my jacket," George said, through chattering teeth.

"Yeah, I know, I found it."

"And spilled coffee on my shirt. It's in my back pack…which I also kinda lost."

Mitchell couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, found that too."

"Oh, good, 'cause my wallet is in there." This was said very matter-of-factly, which made Mitchell wonder if his friend wasn't in the early stages of shock.

Mitchell shrugged out of his leather jacket, leaving himself in a black t-shirt and an unbuttoned long sleeve flannel. He worked against the awkwardness of the handcuffs and did his best to settle the coat over George's shoulders.

"Oh, and these." He dipped one hand into the jacket's inside pocket, withdrew a familiar pair of rimless glasses and slipped them into place. He watched his friend blink several times whilst regaining focus.

A tired, sincere smile spread across George's face. The eyes behind the glasses scanned the dank, concrete room, as if seeing it for the first time. "Okay, yeah," he said with a nod and his voice higher than normal, "definitely need to get out of here." He leaned forward and jerked on the metal cuffs keeping him in place.

Mitchell shifted to get a good look at the handcuffs and the thin pipe that ran up through the ceiling and down through the cement floor. He sighed and rocked back on his heels, staring at George. "I'm gonna try but…not as strong as I used to be, ya know. Change in diet and all that." He shifted his gaze away from George's.

"Hey, _that_ takes a hell of a lot more strength."

The reassuring words made Mitchell nod in thanks and look back at his friend. "Let's get you outta these things." He stood to get a better angle at the handcuffs but as he did the door behind him swung open.

"Oy! What the fuck you doin'?"

"Mitchell!" George warned, his eyes wide.

Mitchell spun around and found himself staring at a skinny blonde youth, but the real shock was the 9mm pistol he pointed at them. Acting on instinct Mitchell stepped sideways, putting himself between the gun and George.

"Whoa, hey," Mitchell blurted, "that's a gun. You know we're all vampires here, right?"

"You know five rounds to your skull makes that mean jack shit, right? Now, I asked you a question, what're you doin' in here?"

Mitchell swallowed hard but tossed out a laugh and tried to sound thick. "Look, mate, I just heard a bit of yelling, came in to check it out, and uh, figured since the bartender wasn't around I'd do a little self-serve. But, no offence, mate. Didn't tap the keg. I'll just be goin'."

Mitchell's eyes had been locked on the young man's face and he could see the gears clunking along behind the eyes as things were put together. Mitchell watched the other vampire's gaze flit from him to George and back again. The gears were speeding up.

The boy stepped sideways to get a clearer view of George. Mitchell matched the movement but added a step toward the threat.

"Look," said Mitchell, "how 'bout if I just-"

"Shut up!" He stared at George. "Where did you get-?" His face lit with realization at the same instant Mitchell made his move.

Mitchell charged the youth, reaching him just as the pistol went off. The deafening bang of gunfire just barely preceded an unnatural 'snap' and a throat-searing scream from the young man. The clatter of the gun skittering across the floor was gentle in comparison with the continued shouting.

The younger vampire stumbled back till his back hit the wall; he slid down it clutching his arm to his chest. "You broke it…broke it!"

"Mitchell!" George was frantically pulling against the cuffs and pipe that kept him from reaching his friend.

Mitchell heard his name but didn't feel this was the right moment to respond to it. He'd disarmed the youth easily enough; however, it was the other thing that was bothering him—the pain in his left side. Though he didn't remember moving his right arm it was wrapped across his stomach so his hand could clamp down on the spot from where the pain originated. His left arm pressed in also, adding pressure to the place above his hip and below his ribcage—the place where the hole was.

"Mitchell….?" This time his name was spoken in a half-whisper and nearly drowned out by the sound of shoes scuffing down the hallway.

Three men appeared in the doorway just as the pain radiating through Mitchell's torso sent a jolt through him and dropped him to his knees. He knelt on the hard floor, head low, hair cascading around his face and shutting out his peripheral vision. The next sound he heard was the door closing.

A firm, controlled voice took command. "Andy, what the hell is going on? Who is this?"

Andy was still slumped against the wall, half-crying. "That one broke me fuckin' tail lights and that one broke me fuckin' arm!"

Shoe soles clicked against the concrete floor toward where Mitchell had tossed the gun and the cool voice spoke again. "Andy…."

"What!" Andy retorted, sniffling. "You think I'm comin' into someone else's territory without insurance? And what if I didn't have it? He woulda killed me!"

The shoe soles clicked back to where the other two men stood. "Ian, did you know…."

"I'd no idea, Sheldon." This second voice held an obvious subservient tone. "If I'd even had a clue I never would have let him-"

Mitchell stared at the concrete floor and really wished Ian _had_ known. The pain was excruciating and held him rooted in his kneeling position. He could feel his body fighting to heal the through-and-through wound in his side even as warm blood soaked into his t-shirt and slicked his fingers.

"Never mind," Sheldon said. "Just hold onto this till we're through tonight."

'_Oh yeah, great,'_ thought Mitchell, _'let's just keep that gun around. Brilliant idea.'_

"So," Sheldon said, moving as he spoke. A pair of expensive-looking black leather shoes filled the spot of floor on which Mitchell had been focused. "Who do we have here?"

Mitchell gasped as a strong hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him upright. He clutched tighter to his side as the movement jolted a new wave of pain through him. From behind, he heard a sharp intake of breath from George.

Sheldon studied him as if trying to identify the interloper.

"His name's Mitchell," Andy blurted. "The dog called him that. He had to have given him the glasses and that jacket."

The expression on Sheldon's face shifted and his left fist tightened as he tipped Mitchell's face toward the light. He spoke slowly, almost to himself. "This _is_ interesting. And you managed to find your way here? For that?" He nodded toward George.

Mitchell didn't reply, just held the other's gaze. Without warning, Sheldon's right hand swung in and locked across Mitchell's throat. In one fluid movement, he lifted the wounded vampire off his knees and flung him left toward the wall.

The sound of George shouting and Mitchell's cry of pain melded into a macabre harmony. Crumpled on his injured side, Mitchell squeezed his eyes tight against the waves coursing through his body. After a few seconds, but still breathing hard, he forced himself up to a sitting position with his back against the wall. He was really starting to get more than a little pissed off. Mitchell met Sheldon's gaze and saw the vampire wearing an amused grin.

"Tough little spit," Sheldon said, looking at Ian and the other man. "We should have had him instead of Andy. But then, I don't suppose he would have gone along with our end of the arrangement, eh, McCallan?"

Confusion flitted across Mitchell's face and Sheldon seemed to respond to it. "Doesn't seem that a vampire who is apparently _friends_ with a werewolf would work well with a vampire who drinks the _blood_ of that werewolf."

Sheldon's smile was in dark opposition to the shock that overtook Mitchell. The thoughts racing around his mind were voiced by George.

"They don't do that; I didn't think they did that. Mitchell, do they do that?"

For a few seconds Mitchell could only stare at his friend with his mouth open and confusion furrowing his brow. "I-I've heard stories." His gaze darted back and forth between Sheldon and the man they called McCallan. "I mean, you, you hear stories about fetish-type stuff…rumours that it's supposed to increase a vampire's strength ten-fold, but…. "

McCallan looked so normal—average height, boring clothes, a little on the pudgy side. The man could be a chartered accountant, for God's sake. Mitchell shook his head again, not wanting to accept the truth that stared him in the face. The smell of werewolf blood was hard enough to stand, but to drink it and drink enough to affect your strength—Mitchell swallowed back a gag at the thought.

Sheldon wrinkled his nose a little, smiled and shrugged. "Not rumours…according to Mr. McCallan. Tested and verified. You see, we're here in town to take care of some business and he's, well, you might say he's an independent contractor. And when it comes to getting a job done I believe in perseverance not prejudices."

He casually pushed his overcoat back to slip his hands into the pockets of his trousers and looked at George. "We did have to ask around a bit to find what we needed though. Your kind isn't always easy to locate. And what do you know; we were lucky enough to find one in the city where we're doing business."

"This is mad!" Mitchell blurted.

Sheldon shrugged again. "Business often is." He strode toward George and Mitchell spoke quickly, desperate to distract the man.

"What's so out of the ordinary that the strength of three or four vampires isn't enough?"

Sheldon stood next to George now but gave his attention to Mitchell. "It's more of a…shock and awe tactic. Get in, get things done, get out. Fast and easy. You see, our city…_my_ city, we prefer discreet. We conduct our business and I don't favour stupidity. So when someone from London comes in and starts doing things that could get us noticed by the local peasants and then has the audacity to ignore direct requests to curb such behaviors, well, that's business that needs to be taken care of."

"So why not take care of it in your own town?" Mitchell asked. His aim was to keep Sheldon talking for as long as possible. He could tell the bullet wound had stopped bleeding. The longer he was able to keep anything from happening in this room, the more time his body had to repair itself.

It would be a couple of days until he healed completely but, right now, every second he could stall was one more second of strength he would have when he and George needed it. And he strongly believed they would need it.

"Because," Sheldon answered, "the thorn in my side happens to be here for a day or so. And as my sole purpose is to keep my city quiet, where better to kill a man than outside your own territory?"

Anger welled in Mitchell. "This is all for a…turf war? You're doing all this for a bloody pissing contest?" The fury that rose at the thought of George's life being nothing more than a tool in some grand alley fight energized Mitchell. He set his hands firmly on the ground, barely noticing the grit that stuck to his blood-wet palms, and pushed up enough to get one foot underneath himself.

With his attention fixed on Sheldon he was caught off-guard by Ian. A split second was all it took for the other vampire to knock Mitchell back against the wall and wedge the barrel of the 9mm under his jaw.

"No!" George yelled. He lashed out, kicking at the closest thing, which happened to be Sheldon. The vampire took the strike in the side of his left knee and, whilst it only caused him to stumble off balance, he reacted with a lightning-quick reprimand. Before George's eyes could register the movement Sheldon spun round and locked his prey in a hold that was a twist away from a broken neck.

Stillness fell on the room. Mitchell was frozen in place, afraid any movement would encourage Sheldon to carry through with his implied threat.

"Now," Sheldon said quietly, "I'm on a schedule. McCallan, if you would."

"Thought you'd never ask," McCallan said, approaching George.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks again for following! Because the show always does an awesome job of using music I've been starting each part with lyrics from a song from my cd library that I envision playing during one of the scenes in the chapter. Google any you don't recognize and maybe it will introduce you to a song or band you hadn't previously heard.

* * *

_So boy, Welcome to sleep_

_I'm gonna make you, make you, make you bleed_

_~Gary Numan~_

McCallan's lilting tone made Mitchell's skin crawl. "Don't do this," Mitchell said, in a tight voice. "You don't have to do this. There're other ways. I-I'll go with you. I'll take the guy out for you; just tell me where to find him."

"Oh," Sheldon said, ignoring Mitchell, "from the wrist, McCallan, if you don't mind. No offence intended but I can't risk you getting too full and sleepy." He dropped his top hand away from George's head but kept the left arm secure across the throat. He dug a set of tiny keys from his coat pocket and passed them to McCallan.

A nearly imperceptible click preceded the sound of metal clinking against metal. McCallan unlocked the steel ring from George's left wrist but immediately relocked it around the pipe.

McCallan tossed the keys back with one hand while extending his victim's freed arm. Sheldon had again secured the neck-break hold on George, and Mitchell could hear the pounding of his heart and smell the terror radiating off him.

"Oh God," George whispered. His gaze was locked on the ceiling and Mitchell couldn't tell if the tremors shaking his friend's body were from cold or fear. Mitchell's jacket had slipped from George's shoulders and lay in a useless heap behind him.

"I'll kill you," Mitchell hissed. The pistol pressed to his throat meant nothing; the wound at his side was ignored. The fury had taken control. His eyes were black and his fangs had dropped. He stared at McCallan but the pure darkness in his voice brought all eyes to him. "I swear to all that is holy and all that is evil, I will kill you."

Despite the facts indicating the threat to be an impossibility, McCallan wavered with his teeth hovering above George's forearm. His eyes showed trepidation and flicked to Sheldon. However, Sheldon turned his attention to Mitchell.

"A bullet can be put in your skull right now. You do realize that?"

Ian thumbed back the pistol's hammer and the click seemed to fill the room.

"Stop. Mitchell…."

The voice was shaky but had enough composure to be the only thing that could have reached the human part of the vampire. Mitchell blinked away the blackness in his vision and felt his fangs recede. He could sense George's eyes on him but he didn't feel the strength to return the gaze. He'd failed his friend.

"Mitchell." It came out as a half-whisper but it commanded the vampire's attention. George's eyes glistened with moisture, his lips were pressed tight in an obvious attempt to stifle his emotion, yet he managed to display a ghost of a smile. "It's okay." Despite the restraining hold, George nodded to his friend. "It's okay."

The sound of fangs puncturing flesh ripped through Mitchell's brain and pierced his heart. He slammed his eyes shut, as if that could block out the sound of his friend's scream.

Beside him, he heard Ian gag in reaction to an act considered beyond taboo in most of the vampire world. Andy, also, made a muffled retching sound.

Mitchell's hearing engulfed his other senses. The wet smack of McCallan feeding, George's pounding heartbeat and hyperventilating breath all swelled in his ears. He heard a whisper, repeating the same words over and over, "That'senoughThat'senoughThat'senough" until the voice rose to a fevered pitch. He forced his eyes open and realized it was his own voice. "THAT'S ENOUGH!"

The roar seized the attention of each vampire in the room. Ian jerked back, frightened. McCallan dropped George's arm and took a drunken half-step away but his eyes were glassy and he proceeded to lick at the blood smeared about his mouth. Sheldon had released his hold and seemed to consider George to be of no consequence.

Mitchell made a move to stand but Ian put a hand on his chest to stop him. The older vampire fixed his guard with an unblinking gaze.

"You'd best get permission to shoot me now, because I _am_ getting up to tend to my friend."

Ian didn't move his hand but didn't apply pressure or use the gun when Mitchell pushed himself up with support from the wall and limped toward the hunched figure seated on the concrete ridge.

Just as Mitchell reached him, George turned away and vomited. With his wounded left arm wrapped tight against his stomach and his cuffed right arm extended back toward the pipe he looked like a Bouffonical actor in deep bow.

When the sick splashed toward Sheldon's shiny black shoes and caused the man to step away Mitchell couldn't help but let a tiny smile show. With a hand on his friend's back, Mitchell spoke soft words of reassurance and waited till the shudders passed before attempting to turn George toward him.

He didn't say anything as he pulled off his flannel button-up and crouched in front of George, who still clutched his punctured wrist to his body and hadn't looked up. Mitchell ripped one sleeve off the shirt and gingerly extended George's arm.

"Let's get this taken care of," he murmured.

George didn't answer but did straighten a bit and wiped his mouth on the shoulder of his t-shirt. Mitchell pressed the fabric against the wound, holding it in place with the heel of one hand whilst he unstrapped George's watch to get it out of the way. The leather band was slick and warm and Mitchell tucked it into the pocket of his jeans, anxious to rid his fingertips of his friend's blood.

He tried to detach himself from the process, telling himself this was a routine bandage wrap, but seeing the puncture wounds in his best friend's arm made his stomach twist.

George misinterpreted the look of revulsion. "It probably reeks to you…sorry, I'm sor-"

Mitchell clamped his hand across the bandage to help stop the bleeding and stared solidly into his friend's eyes. "No. George, this room is full of things that make me sick, but this," he gently shook the arm in his grip, "is _not_ one of them."

He focused back on securing the makeshift bandage and added lightly. "That shirt you're wearing, on the other hand, we're gonna have to be burning that thing."

"That's all right," George answered hoarsely, "I'm pretty sure it's one of yours."

As Mitchell tied off the bandage he noticed something else. "Hey, what's this about?" With one fingertip, he lightly brushed the area on his friend's wrist where fighting against the handcuffs had left the skin raw and swollen. "Now what'd ya go and do a thing like this for?"

George replied with a small shrug. "Suppose I could have chewed it off to free myself."

Mitchell looked up with a smile and felt his stress level fade just a bit when he saw the same expression reflected back. "A little wolf humour there? Is that what that was?"

"Yeah, maybe a little."

"Don't make me laugh. It still hurts like the Devil."

George's eyes widened and several thoughts tried to come out at once. "Oh God, you got shot. I didn't mean to…Jesus, are you…?" His eyes fell to the small hole in Mitchell's black t-shirt where the fabric was stiff with drying blood.

Mitchell lifted the shirt just enough to expose massive blue and purple bruising that surrounded two ugly puckering in-and-out holes that had already closed. "Just a flesh wound, I've had worse."

"That's not funny," George replied.

"It was when John Cleese said it." He dropped the shirt back into place and showed a tired smile. "Just need a bit of time to let the innards recover."

From behind them McCallan's voice, thick from the feed, interrupted with a chuckle. "Take a drink while you're down there. It'll give you a grand kick…get you back on your feet."

Mitchell tilted his head slightly toward McCallan and replied in a subdued tone. "You'd do best to step back."

"Or what?" The words slurred together and Mitchell sensed it was the effects of the werewolf blood—the ferocity of the wolf merging into the arrogance of the vampire. The chartered accountant was a belligerent drunk.

McCallan's shoes scraped the concrete as he shifted toward Sheldon. "Who's this little piss to get such leeway, Mr. Wallace?"

Mitchell stood and turned to face the room; his head was low and his hair fell about his face as he stared at each of the vampires in turn.

"The name is John Mitchell. And I'm guessing any of you outside of fledgling age most likely recognize it. The Great War is when I was recruited…1917, by William Herrick. This is _his_ town, by the way. So if you mean to engage in your little cockfight here I suggest you take care of it quick and leave this city by sunrise."

By the time Mitchell mentioned the war Sheldon wore a sober expression, Ian had paled, and McCallan's broad-shouldered stance had dipped. Definitely creatures outside of fledgling age.

"Then," Sheldon said, "let's get on with business…oh, but I've decided to take you up on your earlier offer, Mr. Mitchell. You're coming with."

George and Mitchell's answers overlapped.

"What?"

"Like hell."

Sheldon seemed unfazed. "Insurance policy. Andy is useless to me at the moment."

"I'm not useless," whinged the youth, who was now on his feet but still cradled his broken arm to his chest.

"Shut up, Andrew," Sheldon casually said. "So Ian will be here with Andy and my collateral," he waved a hand toward George, "until Edward Addington has a stake through his heart and I've pissed on his ashes. Then we all go our separate ways. 'course, the other option, Mitchell, is we kill you now and I let McCallan drain your friend's body dry right before we leave for home."

McCallan's bravado returned. "Or maybe I'll give him a taste and see if we can turn him into something good."

George moved at the same time as Mitchell. He just managed to get his free arm over the vampire's shoulder and clamped across his chest with a fistful of t-shirt in an attempt to hold him. Mitchell's mind flamed with a single thought—smash McCallan's fangs from his mouth with a chunk of concrete; however, George's voice cut through the rage and Mitchell allowed himself to be pulled back.

"Mitchell! No! No. Listen to me. Listen!"

The vampire heard the voice booming in his left ear but his eyes remained locked on McCallan in a deadly gaze. George breathed heavily from the exertion and tried to turn his friend toward him. "Look at me. Mitchell. Look. At. Me."

The words got through and Mitchell turned, focusing on the pale, sweat-peppered face inches from his own. George's free arm draped across Mitchell's left shoulder. Despite the bandage, the smell of werewolf blood was pungent in his nostrils and he could feel the sweat-slick palm that rested against the nape of his neck.

"Our box of options isn't exactly full right now," George said. "And as someone who I'm pretty sure has had the shittiest night here _and_, I'd say, has the most to lose, I'm asking you to keep it together. I _need_ you to keep it together," he swallowed hard and tightened his grip on Mitchell's neck, "because you're all I've got."

George's eyes held a mixture of pleading, anger, fear and strength. Mitchell hated this. He should be able to protect his friends. They shouldn't be forced to suffer at the whims of 'his kind'. He set his mouth in a tight line but nodded in acquiescence. George visibly relaxed and Mitchell lightly gripped his sides to support his friend as he guided him back to the concrete seat.

Mitchell stretched out his arm behind him toward where he knew Sheldon stood. "Give me the keys." Two seconds of silence were enough to cause Mitchell to turn and fix the other vampire with a hard look. "You may not care if he goes hypothermic but I do. The keys. Please."

It was only one word but it contained the force of a man who'd lived for over a century, slaughtered others for not only need but sport, and had reveled in those things which many considered nightmares.

Sheldon dipped in his pocket for the keys and tossed them to Mitchell. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a total monster."

Mitchell detached the cuffs, slipped the key into his jeans pocket and dropped the handcuffs next to George on the concrete ledge. He picked up the torn flannel shirt and leather jacket. "C'mon," he said softly, "get these on. Ya gotta stay warm."

He helped his friend manoeuvre into the clothes. George managed the shirt buttons but his attempt to secure the ones on the jacket tightened the muscles of his wounded wrist, causing him to gasp and flinch. Wordlessly, Mitchell took over and closed the leather over his friend's body.

He started to peel off his fingerless gloves but George stopped him with a hand on Mitchell's. "Wouldn't seem right. Like taking the claws off Wolverine."

Mitchell showed a hint of a grin. "You're a gianourmous geek, you know that, don't you?"

George's face reflected the smile and he shrugged as if half-dismissing and half-acknowledging the statement.

"And anyway," Mitchell added, pulling the jacket's lapels closer together before popping the collar around his friend's neck, "it should be Batman."

George made a face. "Batman didn't have claws."

"Then what were those things on the outsides of his gloves? Ya know, all curved and pointy."

George's expression was still disapproving. "I dunno. Hooks? They weren't claws."

In the midst of the exchange, Mitchell reached into one of the jacket pockets and pulled out a cigarette pack. "I know how you are; you'll smoke 'em all as soon as my back is turned." He couldn't count the amount of times his friend had criticized him for smoking, usually because of the smell—one of the very few drawbacks of living with a werewolf. He tucked the pack in the front pocket of his jeans.

George rolled his eyes, feigning guilt. "Yeah, well, I've been trying to quit," he said, going along with the joke. "Thinking about taking up heroin as a distraction but there's the whole sharp things in the arm bit." He paused and the small bubble that had momentarily formed around them during the banter popped, exposing them to the surrounding dark reality. "That probably wasn't very funny, was it?"

George swallowed as his eyes watered and Mitchell felt his do the same. He tried for a smile but felt it came out as more of a wince.

"Yeah, George, no, not so much." He rubbed a hand quickly across his eyes and down his face. "I'll be back for the jacket in a bit."

From the door, Sheldon spoke. "Mr. Mitchell."

Ian stepped forward, grabbed George's injured arm and attempted to bend it back behind the pipe they'd secured him to earlier.

"Hey!" Mitchell spun on Ian, pushing him back.

Ian held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Either now or when you're gone."

Mitchell held Ian's gaze until the other vampire blinked and turned away. He held his stance for a second longer, then turned and picked up the handcuffs. It required all his will to take up George's uninjured wrist and slip one of the steel rings around it. He pressed his eyes closed as he locked down the cuff and each click was like a kick to Mitchell's chest.

He felt George move his arm close to the pipe and opened his eyes in time to see his friend reach over with his free hand and place his own fingers over Mitchell's, guiding them to close the other end of the cuff around the pipe. The action made Mitchell feel sick and he couldn't look George in the face.

A whisper, however, helped ease the tight fist that held his stomach. "Keep it-"

"Together," Mitchell finished, nodding. "Consider it being kept." He still couldn't meet George's eyes but he clapped a hand to the back of his friend's neck for reassurance.

Sheldon and McCallan waited in the hall for him; he crossed to follow but stopped in the doorway to address Ian and Andy. "If anything…_anything_ happens to him you can be assured I'll find your homes and the homes of anyone you associate with and when I'm finished it'll make the Cornwall Tavern look like a fuckin' Easter parade."

He turned his back to the room and pulled the door shut behind him.

()()

The three vampires were barely out of the room before Andy's demeanor changed and George saw a return of the mouthy youth.

"What a fuckin' prat. I can't believe Sheldon made a deal with him."

"Shut up, Andy," Ian said, with the same casual tone used earlier by Sheldon. He was examining Andy's forearm which, from what George could see, had a distinctly disturbing bend above the wrist.

'_Probably closed compound ulnar fracture,'_ thought George. _'Open would have been better. Little prick deserves some bone poking through the skin.'_

"Don't touch it!" Andy blurted. "I need a doctor."

Ian appeared as if he was trying to maintain his patience. "You're a bloody vampire, Andy. That Mitchell bloke took a bullet through-and-through and you didn't hear him with the piss an' moan. Hold still."

The sound of bones grinding together preceded Andy shouting and cursing.

"What the hell was that about?" Andy squealed.

"It's back in place. Your body had already started healing. Much longer and it would have fused out of sorts. This way it'll mend proper."

Andy turned his frustration toward George, who was losing the battle to suppress a grin in reaction to the young man's pain.

"You think it's funny? Maybe I should break yours."

"You might want to watch it with that kind of talk," George said. He had a brief thought that the only emotion he had left in his body was an untouched store of sarcasm. "Cornwall Tavern…very sure he was serious. Very." In actuality, George had no idea what that reference was about but at this point he was delighted to have any kind of ammunition to use against his captors.

"Lay off, Andy," Ian said.

The younger vampire looked at his friend. "What's all that rubbish, anyway? Cornwall Tavern?"

Ian dug into his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes and from the tension on his face, George figured Ian to be craving a little stress relief. "Long before my time, and I've heard variations on the story but the facts are always the same.

"Summer of '32, a couple of vampires set up shop in Exeter down in Cornwall. Other vamps could pass through for a night but it was clear they weren't welcome for more than a day or so. Nothing rum about that; keeping things quiet is how we stay out of the pitchfork-and-torch carrying public's eye. One night a group of about thirty or forty fledglings—not sure where from, have heard both North and West Country—who'd been stirring things up a fair amount, end up in Exeter, and after one night decide they want to stay longer."

The lit cigarette tip flared as Ian took a long drag. "The local two said no, the fledglings said piss off and decided to lay out a little ambush for the two at The Cornwall Tavern after closing time. Except, in the morning, the whole lot was dead...but not by stake; more things like multiple limbs missing and throats torn open."

After a few seconds of silence, Andy tossed out a weak laugh. "C'mon, that's gotta be a fairy story. Two vamps against thirty or forty?"

Ian's face was unreadable as he took another long pull and let the smoke curl hypnotically from between his lips. "The first time I heard the story was from a vamp who claimed to be one of five of a clean-up group sent to the tavern the morning after. They were from just north of there, Stoke Hill, and had been tipped off by one of those two locals—a young, dark-haired mick—who told them Exeter had just become a free town but they'd have to tidy up a bit first. That was the first time I heard the names William Herrick and John Mitchell."

Ian dug in his pocket and pulled out a few notes, passing them to Andy. "Here, go up and get us a bottle of something and anything from the kitchen if it's still open."

Andy nodded and took the cash. "Yeah, sure. Hey, you got an extra," he asked, pointing at the cigarette. Ian complied with two and lit one for the youth before he left.

George thought Andy looked like he too was craving a little stress relief.

* * *

A/N: Liking it? Tell your friends or leave a review. =o) Thanks again to my brilliant beta Annie for tweak suggestions.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N Had a really bad day yesterday so figured I'd post this next part earlier than planned in hopes that if someone else is having a bad day this might give them a perk. Gettin' close to the end, just a couple of more parts to go. Thanks so much for following!

* * *

_Senses all been fractured The traitor's in your sights  
The hours spinning backwards There's nowhere left to hide_

_~Black Rebel Motorcycle Club~_

"Don't you love this?" Sheldon said. "It's like 'Goodfellas' or something. Waiting for the target. 'Leave the gun, take the cannoli' and all that. A proper 'Godfather' type hit."

From the passenger's seat of Andy's car, Mitchell just stared at Sheldon, not trying to hide his incredulity. Down the street, a black-fronted corner business was their target of interest. Mitchell tapped out a cigarette against his gloved hand, lit it and purposefully blew the smoke into the car.

"There _is_ an open window there," Sheldon said, eyeing the glass-free square of the passenger door. When, in the parking lot, the broken window had been discovered Mitchell had shaken his head and commented on the dangers of leaving one's vehicle in poorly-lit areas.

"Oh, sorry." Mitchell stared back flatly. He glanced at McCallan for a second. "Was hoping to cover the worse stench in here."

McCallan leaned in from the backseat and made a show of running his tongue along his upper teeth. "I dunno, I rather like the smell of wolf's blood."

Mitchell twisted in his seat toward McCallan; his left fist was balled and raised before he realized. Sheldon caught his forearm in an iron hand and jerked Mitchell's attention from McCallan.

"I don't think," Sheldon snapped, "that dogs heal from bullet wounds as quickly as we do. But I can always make a call to Ian and we can find out."

With their faces a foot apart, Sheldon maintained his grip, squeezing until Mitchell flinched and yanked his arm away. Mitchell reset his focus down the street, took a long drag from his cigarette but this time blew the smoke out the window.

He was thankful for this earlier bit of destruction. The constant flow of cool air made the space less stifling; made him feel farther away from the aggressive energy radiating off McCallan in the back seat.

"So what're we waiting for?" he asked. "This Addington fella come all the way to Bristol just to hit The Java Bar? No upscale nightclubs where you all come from?"

"Personally, I don't care why he's here. My source said he'd be here, so here we are." His eyes narrowed and he pointed toward the club. "And _that _is what we're waiting for."

Mitchell looked down the street and his brow furrowed. "The kid on the motorbike?"

"The _car_, a silver Maybach 62. Let's go."

As they walked toward the club, a sleek four-door luxury sedan pulled up to the kerb that ran along the far side of The Java Bar. The driver's side door opened and a dark-haired, youthful-looking man in a stylish black suit stepped out but immediately settled himself against the bonnet for a smoke.

Sheldon stopped them, tapped Mitchell and nodded toward the driver. "That's your job. I need him out of the way."

Mitchell dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out with the toe of his boot. "Have you any more details to that multi-level, carefully constructed scheme?"

"I don't care if you pay his cover and ask him for a bloody dance; get him away from the car. Addington is still in the club but if his car's here he's going to be out any minute." Sheldon gave him the keys to Andy's car. "For after we're gone. You can take it back to The Tin Door."

Mitchell eyed him warily. "Where're you gonna be?"

He nodded at the Maybach."Driving home."

"Hang on," Mitchell said, narrowing his eyes, "so you hit the road and I have to go back and hope that in the meantime you haven't called Pumpkin and Honey Bunny to tie up loose ends?"

"Ahh, love that film, but _what_ was in that briefcase?" Sheldon dismissed the thought and shrugged. "I think we can both sense how on the verge McCallan here is right now. I also think between he and I we can kill _you_ right now…and I'll just adjust my plan. But that leaves your dog chained up in the basement of a vampire feeding club. And I'm guessing they won't just kindly euthanize him on a comfy sofa in a quiet room. Do you?"

This time Mitchell was aware of his hand curling into a fist. Teeth clenched, he spun away toward the club before his emotions sealed George's fate. By the time he reached the driver he had his phone to his ear and spoke loudly as he approached.

"Oh, hang on, Edward, I think I see the car." He held the phone away from his mouth and smiled at the man leaning against the car. "Mr. Addington's driver?"

The vampire hesitantly nodded and smiled back, as if surprised to see another of his kind.

"Yeah, Edward, I found him. Right, no, no I'll send him in. Where are…back corner on the left side? Excellent. You want me to come in? No, that's fine. I'll meet you here in the car. Cheers." Mitchell quickly slid his phone into his back pocket and stuck his hand out. "Richard Blaine and you're, damn it, Edward just told me and I've already forgotten." He tapped a finger to his temple. "Mind like a steel sieve."

"James, sir," answered the driver, accepting the handshake.

"James, right! Oh, please, none of that sir stuff." Mitchell pointed at the car and prattled on. "So this is his 62? I _would_ say I was around when the original Maybach Zeppelins rolled off the line back in the 'thirties but I'd be dating myself." He decided to take a risk with something he remembered Roger saying in the alley. "The drive up from Southampton was all right?"

The driver nodded, "Not bad, a little rainy."

"Good, good. Oh God!" Mitchell blurted. "I'm supposed to send you inside. Said he's in the back corner on the left side. Needs you for something, couldn't quite hear what he was saying. Sounded like something about squirrels but I'm pretty sure that wasn't it."

"Um, no sir, probably not."

"Told him I'd wait in back here. And what did I say about none of that sir nonsense? It's Richard." Mitchell hitched a thumb toward the car and backed up a few paces. "Unlocked?"

"Yes, sir…Richard."

Relief waved through Mitchell as the driver started for the club but he froze when the man spun toward him. "Hey!"

Mitchell stared at him with wide eyes but tried to sound casual when he replied. "Yeah?"

"No joy-rides."

With an overly-enthusiastic laugh, Mitchell answered, "Not till you get back." He watched the driver jog toward the club. Behind him, he sensed Sheldon and McCallan but didn't turn around.

"Very nice," Sheldon purred. "Now off you go."

McCallan walked in front of Mitchell on his way to the backseat of the car. "I'm sure you don't want anyone getting separation anxiety and chewing all the fur off his tail."

Mitchell kept his eyes toward the club. "I would tell ya to go fuck yourself, McCallan, but that would require you bein' able to get things up and about. And I'm guessing your fetish for werewolf blood is because you're lacking in the more manly areas."

He heard a guttural growl a second before Sheldon stepped in and blocked McCallan with his body while trying not to draw attention.

"In the back, please, Mr. McCallan. Goodbye, Mr. Mitchell." He waited for McCallan to take his place before getting into the driver's seat.

A little voice in Mitchell's head drew him toward the club. As he approached, a door marked 'Exit' swung open and a tall, muscular man with a long, deep scar from his jaw to his throat stepped out. Despite never having seen him before, Mitchell was sure who the vampire was.

He waited until Addington passed to surreptitiously cast an eye toward the car. Addington's attention was to the phone in his hand. He never looked in the driver's direction, simply opened the rear door and got in. Not a sound emanated from the Maybach. Mitchell wasn't sure if it was a testament to the luxury car's soundproofing or the fruition of McCallan's 'shock and awe' attack.

Yet, despite the high-end suspension, Mitchell watched the car rock slightly for several seconds before it stilled. He was sure if not for the curtained rear windows and the divider between the back and driver's section Edward Addington's blood would be splattered on glass for any pedestrian to see.

"Hey."

A hand landed on Mitchell's shoulder and he wheeled around with a start. James the driver stared at him with a perplexed expression.

"Mr. Addington already-" His focus shifted from Mitchell's face to over his shoulder. "Shit!" He bolted for the corner and Mitchell turned to see the Maybach pulling away. James was almost to the kerb when Mitchell grabbed him from behind and swung him to the side of the building, out of sight from the front of the club.

"What're you…Get off me!"

Mitchell struggled to keep him from chasing the car. "I'm trying to keep you alive! Addington's dead."

James pulled out of Mitchell's grip and slumped against the wall. "What?"

"He's dead. It was a set-up. They were waiting for him _in_ the car. Somebody knew he was going to be here and tipped them off."

Confusion still colored the other vampire's features. "What're you talking about? Nobody knew he was coming up here; _I_ didn't even know. His regular driver called me last minute because he…."

Breathing heavily from the sprint and the struggle, Mitchell pulled the battered pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to James. "Because he what?" he asked, patting himself down for a light.

James tucked the cigarette behind his ear and absently withdrew a lighter from his inside jacket pocket and let Mitchell take it.

"Hey, because he what?" repeated Mitchell. He lit his own cigarette and handed the lighter back to James who tucked it away. When he showed his hand again, it held a .40 caliber pistol.

"Because he needed me to fill in for him...who the hell are you?"

Mitchell stepped back. "Jesus, what _is_ it with you Southampton vampires and guns?"

James grabbed the front of Mitchell's shirt and pressed the barrel to his heart. "Who are you?"


	6. Chapter 6

A/N I have no proper author's notes so I'm going to plug one of the best radio stations in the world. Seriously. 97% of the songs played on 'Being Human' S1 have been played on KEXP 90.3 () For the other 3%, the bands were mentioned in a review, a blog or the band has been played, just not the BH song. (No, Aqua's 'Barbie Girl' doesn't count.) I didn't look up music from S2 & 3 but I'm sure it's the same. They are an independent (i.e. commercial-free) station. You can listen live or to archived shows (my favorite dj is John in the Morning). If you don't love KEXP, you don't love music. Bring them up on your computer now. Do it. Right now. Go. Your muse is waiting to be inspired.

* * *

"_There must be some way out of here," said the joker to the thief  
"There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief"_

_~Bob Dylan~_

For being a dim, grubby basement room, George couldn't help but compare the space to a secondary school prom—two parties in the same place but trying to ignore each other and the awkwardness surrounding them. Except rather than teenage boys and girls it was vampires and werewolf.

After Ian's explanation of the Cornwall Tavern he and Andy hadn't even looked at George. They'd sat against the wall with a bottle of whiskey and several packets of crisps and sunflower seeds, playing cards and watching the time. Not that George wanted any interaction. He was perfectly thankful for the opportunity to fold his legs up toward his chest and rest his forehead on his knees.

Thoughts darted in and out—swooping down to swipe at his tired brain and leave trailing talon marks. Outside the concrete walls the city of Bristol went about its business, yet here he was locked in a basement by vampires. The supernatural world he'd been thrust into ran according to its own Wonderland rules. He compartmentalized his life to maintain sanity. Things needed to be black and white.

His life with Mitchell and Annie was about tea and toast and work and telly. George's condition didn't define him; he took one night a month to be alone. Annie hadn't been murdered by a sociopathic fiancée; she radiated vibrant life in the little pink house. His best friend wasn't a mass murderer; stories like the Cornwall Tavern were from a long-distant previous existence.

'_Thirty or forty vampires… multiple limbs missing and throats torn open.'_

That wasn't George and Annie's Mitchell. Their Mitchell ate kids' cereal while watching The Marx Brothers. Their Mitchell had a mischievous laugh and deep concern for his friends. Their Mitchell didn't find sport in cruelty. George looked at the vampires seated across the room. Their Mitchell was _not_ one of them.

Yet, those two vampires across the room acted as if George didn't even exist simply because of two words—Cornwall Tavern. The most compassionate friend George ever had held a reputation that frightened monsters.

'_Survive a werewolf attack and your life becomes one bizarre dichotomy after another.'_ The little voice in his head rabbited on. _'It's not like you aren't slapped silly on a regular basis with surrealism; being handcuffed to a pole should fall into the 'getting a speeding ticket' category...make your heart beat faster but in the end you're only out some time and money.'_

The exhausted part of his brain simply patted him on the head and suggested he keep mental notes. _'There's a Mike Leigh homage film in here somewhere.'_

With a hand shaky from cold and low blood sugar, George dug into the pocket of Mitchell's jacket and fished about. The half-full packet of Trebor extra strong mints he'd found there earlier had done wonders for helping the hunger and thirst that had descended on him since he'd been left with Ian and Andy.

Thanks to the handcuffs he could only get his left hand in the pocket. In an attempt to warm the fingers of his right hand he curled them in and out while trying to determine what hurt most—raw wrists, fresh bite, or head wound.

Suddenly, a rush of adrenaline and a bit of dizziness accompanied an increase in heart rate. _'Christ, I've been bitten.'_ Medical facts spun through his mind like a tornado. Human bites contain high levels of bacteria, those bacterial infections can lead to severe joint infection; never mind about puncture wounds, those things are cesspools—jamming all manner of bacteria and foreign material deep into the skin.

He was up on his tetanus. What about rabies? Are vampires related to bats? _'Oh God, HIV?' _He _really_ needed to sit down with Mitchell about this.

'_Come on, Mitchell, where are you?'_

The worrying voice turned ugly. What was stopping Sheldon and McCallan from killing his friend after they got him to do what they needed him to? Could Mitchell's on-the-wagon status allow him enough strength against two vampires, one charged with werewolf blood? What if he was already dead?

The voice tried to get louder but George nipped it silent. _'No. You're not around for over a century without picking up a thing or two about survival.'_

Andy's voice snapped him out of his head. "Sheldon called you yet?" He shelled and ate sunflower seeds from the pub-sized packet beside him while watching Ian play Solitaire.

Ian didn't look up. "I'm sure if he had, we'd have heard the phone ring, don't you think? That is, unless he called you…."

From a previous conversation, George knew where this was headed.

"I told you," Andy protested, "I didn't leave it in me car on purpose."

Now Ian looked up. "And when you gave him your keys you didn't think, 'oy, I should probably go up and get my phone before Sheldon drives off with it'."

"I didn't think about it. I thought I had it on me."

Three raps at the door preceded it opening and a head popping in. "Sheldon called you yet?"

"No," Andy answered dolefully without turning around.

"Who the hell are you?" Ian demanded, getting to his feet.

Andy's face registered confusion from answering someone without knowing who they were and he turned to the door. George still could only see the head of a man, around his mid-20s, with close-cropped dark hair.

"Didn't Sheldon tell you Addington's driver was his tip-off man?"

Ian and Andy answered at the same time.

"Yes."

"No."

Andy got to his feet. "He didn't tell me."

"He doesn't tell you a lot of things, Andy," Ian said as he pulled his phone from his inside jacket pocket.

The man at the door stepped in whilst brushing away some dust from his dark suit jacket. "You must be Ian and Andy. I'm James." There was a jangling of keys as he flipped them to Andy. "Catch. Your car's in the lot."

"For fuck's sake," Ian said. He was focused on his phone but accepted a handshake from the new man. "No wonder the phone didn't ring; there's no bloody reception down here."

James shook Andy's hand. "Good to finally meet you both."

"I'm going upstairs," Ian said, "see if I have messages." He continued to mutter as he left. "Can't believe we've been sitting in this shit hole…."

"Hey!" George stood, ignoring the cuff that pulled his arm behind him. All eyes turned to him but he suppressed his fear. "Where's Mitchell?"

James looked at him. "The mick? Oh, he's dead." He slipped his hand inside his coat, withdrew a pistol and waved it a bit.

The muscles in George's legs gave way and he dropped onto the concrete outcropping. His brain was trying to interpret the words he'd just heard but it couldn't. They should make sense but they didn't. Something inside his body had slithered up from his stomach and was coiling itself around his windpipe, constricting his ability to breathe.

A scuffle in the hall caught Andy's attention. "Ian?"

George watched, feeling out of synch with the rest of the world. He saw things playing out but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered.

Andy turned to the partially-open door. James, gun in his right hand, slipped his left up under the back of his suit jacket and withdrew a foot-long stake. He charged Andy just as the door burst open and Mitchell and Ian crashed into the room.

George's voice equaled the volume of the fight but came out as more of a shocked scream. Andy and James tumbled back towards George and the pistol skittered towards him whilst the stake clattered toward Ian, who lay on his back struggling with Mitchell.

With an eye on his friend, George bent to grab the pistol but the handcuff prevented him. Mitchell's hands were locked around Ian's forearm as he tried, George assumed, to prevent Ian from getting the gun tucked at his waist.

Despite the pressure and pain to his wrist, George turned and stretched his leg toward James's gun until the rubber edge of his trainer pressed down against it and he dragged it towards him. Feet away, Andy had James pinned to the floor and laid several consecutive right hooks across his face. Blood from James's mouth and nose was smeared across his face and Andy's knuckles.

Still wrestling with Ian, Mitchell twisted sharply to the right, cracking his elbow against the other's cheekbone and nose and stunning him. In one fluid movement, Mitchell grabbed up the stake and plunged it into Ian's heart.

James had kicked Andy off him and scrambled to his feet to continue the attack but his slick-soled shoes couldn't find purchase amongst the seed shells and playing cards and he fell hard to the cement floor. Andy was already charging in.

Seconds earlier, George saw him pull the switchblade from his boot. As if in slow motion, he watched Andy draw back to slice at James's throat. That was when he pulled the trigger.

For the second time that night, the sound of gunfire cracked around the thick cement walls of the underground room. For George, time reverted back to normal speed and his sightline followed the line of his arm, to the sights of the gun, to the shocked look on Andy's face and the panel of blood spreading across his stomach.

Mitchell rolled in from the side and with a sweeping gesture slammed the stake into Andy's chest. The younger vampire's body convulsed for several seconds before it seemed to be engulfed by ash and crumbled to the floor.

As Mitchell rose to his feet, he looked at George, who'd lowered the gun to his side but again felt like he was out of synch with everyone else.

"That was…a helluva shot," Mitchell said, in an awed tone whilst taking slow steps toward his friend. "And with your left hand."

George felt like he should say something but he could only manage a nod. His eyes were locked on the pile of ash and clothes that used to be Andy.

"I didn't think you'd ever fired a gun."

George shook his head.

"Didn't think you'd ever even _held_ a gun."

Again George shook his head.

"But you just scooped this one right up and aimed and fired and hit that target spot on." Mitchell's voice maintained the impressed tone.

George nodded. "All the Bruce Willis films, maybe?" His attention was still on the disturbing pile. He felt the gun pulled from his slack hand and shifted his focus to the figure beside him. The face was pale and haggard and showed evidence of the recent fight. Yet, it made George smile, but just for a second.

He stabbed a finger at James who sat on the concrete with some smears of blood still evident on his face. "He-He said you…" George turned a sharp eye on James. "_You_ said he…."

Mitchell briefly laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "That was me, George. If we'd come in all lock, stock, and smokin' barrels you'd have been in the crossfire." He gingerly massaged his side where the bullet had struck him earlier. " 'course the plan didn't involve Ian coming out and surprising me in the hall."

From his spot on the floor James stared up at George with a dazed expression. "You…shot him."

"Yeah," George answered, his eyebrows raised in astonishment. He still didn't quite believe it himself.

James seemed to be having a hard time processing this. "You…saved my life."

"Yeaah," George drawled. He gave the vampire a look that said what he was thinking, _'Shouldn't I have?'_

"But, you're a…."

George sensed that James was reluctant to say the word. "Yeah. I am," he answered flatly. The shock of the last few minutes was wearing off and annoyance was rapidly replacing it.

"And my best friend is a vampire. And come to think of it, another dear friend is a ghost. We're a regular episode of 'Two Pints'." The possible interpretation of that struck him and he clarified. "Except with less sex. Well, more like, no sex…'cause Annie's a ghost and Mitchell's…well, I mean, we're guys. Not that there's anything wrong with that, if that's the way somebody is. But we're not," he added quickly.

The two vampires stared at him with similar expressions, as if they each were trying to suppress a grin. He shook the arm handcuffed to the pipe. "Would someone please just get me out of these!"

()()()()

They watched the dark shape of Andy's car roll into the darkness with James behind the wheel. He had helped them clear the basement room of evidence and kept watch as Mitchell snuck George out of the club.

Mitchell slung an arm over George's shoulder just long enough to steer him down an alley opposite The Tin Door. "I'd say you may have made a convert, there."

"So, what, he's headed back to Southampton to spread the word of wolf?"

"More likely headed back to Southampton to tell his mates that Sheldon and McCallan just murdered their boss and stole his very expensive car."

"Well then," George said. "God speed to him." He cocked his head toward Mitchell. "Is it all right to say that to a vampire? The whole God thing?"

"Should be fine as long as it's complimentary. 'course, there're classics that aren't technically blessings…Denn die Todten reiten Schnell."

He started to translate but George was already saying it with him. "For the dead travel fast."

"Very good, Professor Sands."

"Thank you, Professor Mitchell. Know of any gothic quotes for 'Wish I could watch when you send McCallan back to the depraved pit of Wanker Hell that he crawled out of'?"

A voice behind them answered. "But I'm thinking of staying here."

They spun around but knew what they would see. To George's eye, McCallan looked like a man delightfully demon-possessed. His clothes were stained dark with dried blood, smears of which were still around his mouth.

"Jesus," Mitchell whispered. "He didn't just kill Addington, he fed off him."

* * *

A/N The final part is on its way. I hope you've enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing this one. Leave feedback and let me know what you think.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N No real notes. Thanks to those who pointed out little fixes that needed to be fixed. Hopefully I can fix them properly and get the parts back up (first story here on ff net so I'm not sure about how to fix & repost).

* * *

_And even when them odds are against us It doesn't even matter…_

_Whatever the outcome is Just keep your faith in me  
Just believe in me And I will be there_

_~Trik Turner~_

McCallan smiled. "I had Sheldon drop me off here a bit ago. I've been waiting for you lads."

With one arm, Mitchell swept George behind him whilst taking a step toward McCallan. "Go George, get outta here."

"Mitchell—"

"GO!"

McCallan charged, but not for George. Like a tackle, he rushed Mitchell, grabbing him round the waist and lifting him several feet off the ground before slamming him against the alley wall. With blurring speed, McCallan laid several punches to the wound in Mitchell's side causing him to cry out and his back to arch in reaction to the hits.

George had fallen back only a few yards when his friend pushed him. The speed and brutality of McCallan's attack on Mitchell froze George to the spot. He knew he didn't stand a chance against McCallan but at that moment, it didn't matter. He picked up a large rock and hurled it at the vampire's head.

The chunk of stone smacked its target and bounced off. The desired effect, however, was achieved. McCallan dropped Mitchell and set his eyes on his attacker. A part of George wanted to go to his friend, who was curled on the ground. But this was the time for the second part of the plan—he turned and ran.

He sprinted toward a dumpster at the end of the alley and ducked behind it out of McCallan's view. Crouched, with his back pressed against the wall, he scrambled to pull what he needed from the inside pocket of Mitchell's jacket.

The slap of McCallan's shoes against the ground stopped suddenly at the other end of the dumpster. Tiny crunching pops of gravel underfoot heralded a step-by-step approach. "Hiding behind a waste bin," McCallan said. "_That_ was your plan?"

George's heart rate spiked when McCallan loomed into his vision. "No. This was." With all his strength, he launched himself up, thrusting the stake in his hands into McCallan's heart. The vampire fell back and George followed. He used the resistance of the ground under McCallan to drive the wood shaft deeper into the chest that he already felt crumbling.

Blood bubbled from McCallan's mouth and the scientific part of George's brain attributed it to the vampire's recent feed. He scrambled away from the disintegrating body and looked, instead, for life. Mitchell leaned heavily against the wall with one arm wrapped around his waist. To George it looked like nothing short of sheer determination was what held his friend upright.

.

"And to think," Mitchell said, "that I questioned the practicality of you keeping that stake."

George got to his feet and went to him. "What was it you said? 'I just don't see what you're gonna do with it, George'."

Mitchell's brow furrowed. "Since when do I have a French accent?"

"That wasn't French! That was totally Irish."

"I don't know what that was," Mitchell said, "but it was not Irish." He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall.

The term 'walking dead' popped into George's mind. "You know we still have the walk back to the house?"

Mitchell's eyes stayed closed but he raised his brows. "Why didn't we ask James for a ride?"

"What," George said, pulling his friend into a proper standing position, "and miss me being able to say 'I told you so' about that stake?"

()()()()

Annie had given up watching at the window, it was impossible to keep still. She had gone from fast pacing to slow pacing and on to wandering from room to room. She'd spent fifteen minutes trying to focus on both George and Mitchell in hopes that her mind would take her to wherever they were. And through all of it she refused to give her tears the escape they pushed for.

Crying would mean something bad had happened to her boys. That just wasn't an option. They were the ones who had helped her become visible to "normal" people. Not helped in a practical manner, more like an emotional one.

She believed their ability to see and hear her, the comfort and feeling of family they provided, their acceptance of her as a member of their household and not just as 'a ghost' had been instrumental in her manifesting a physical form.

Her fingertips crept along the wall of the stairwell as she descended. She had died in this house but Mitchell and George had brought her back to life. She couldn't face the idea that they could be—

The sound of the front door opening sent her racing down the rest of the steps, shrieking, and flinging herself at the first body that came in. She threw her arms around George's neck and knocked him back a few paces into Mitchell. George lifted her enough to walk them both into the house but Annie barely noticed. Her thoughts tumbled out in random succession.

"Oh my God you found him Where was he Where were you Oh George you're all right I didn't know what to do I've just been walking around and I tried to think about where you boys would be so I could find you but it didn't work and I couldn't cry because that would mean you were both dead so I said No Annie no crying and I couldn't look out the window any longer because the longer I watched the longer you both were gone and we're out of tea so all I could do was make cups of boiling water and add sugar to them 'cause we're out of milk too."

Her eyes fell on Mitchell who had closed the door and was leaning against it, watching his friends with a tired smile.

"I knew you would find him!" She uncoiled herself from George and wrapped her arms around Mitchell's torso in a tight hug, kissing his cheek.

Mitchell gasped as she squeezed him. "Oww, oh, Annie-luv, please don't."

Something about his shirt struck her as odd and she released her hold. "You're crunchy." His black t-shirt had a large stain where the fabric was stiff and crinkled. Spotting a hole in it she made a move to inspect her friend closer.

"I'm fine," he said.

Annie attempted to lift the shirt but Mitchell pushed her hand away, she pushed his in return. A volley of hand movements erupted, but she finished it with a final smack to his wrist.

"Ow!"

She yanked the shirt up to expose a large black and yellow bruise and two scabbed wounds. "Oh my God, what is that!"

"It's nothing," Mitchell said, tugging his shirt down.

Annie looked at George. "What is that?"

"He got shot." He stated it as if she asked whether or not he'd like a sandwich.

Annie stared at Mitchell. "You what!"

"It's alright," he said. "Nothing a couple of days off won't cure and I happen to have the next two days off. You know, I'll bet George could really use a nice hot cup of tea. George?"

"Yeah, as long as I can crawl into it and fall asleep." He stepped toward the kitchen after Mitchell nudged him from behind.

Annie, however, was now being hit by every emotion she'd suppressed since George first went missing—worry, fear, anger, sadness, rage, more fear.

"We're _out_ of tea," she said sharply. She smacked Mitchell on the arm. "You were supposed to call. You said you'd call! What is it with men? Why don't they ever call when they say they will? You think it's a cliché but it isn't. They don't call. Is it so bloody difficult? If you're not going to call, then don't tell us you're going to!"

She'd backed Mitchell up against the door and was about to turn on George when Mitchell gripped her shoulders.

"Annie, Annie, Annie. I'm sorry. Everything just happened so fast. I didn't want to call you if I hadn't found him yet and after I did find him there wasn't time and…when there was time my battery was dead. I'm sorry."

"Mine got broken," George added, pulling his phone from his jacket to reveal a crack across the screen.

Mitchell offered her a sincere, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry," he said. "_We're_ sorry."

George nodded, looking more than a little like a scolded school boy. "We are."

Annie grabbed them both round the neck and pulled them in for a hug. Now she could let the tears out. "I thought I'd lost you. You're never, ever, _ever_ to do this again." She felt each of them put a hand on her back to return the hug. After several seconds, she released them but laid her hands to their cheeks, one palm to each. "Because I can't be here without my boys."

()()

It didn't take Annie long to herd them into the kitchen to get them fed. When she'd started to ask what had happened Mitchell silenced her with a look and by mouthing, "Later."

George leaned against the counter, still wearing Mitchell's leather jacket though Annie wasn't sure why, and waited for the microwave to warm his food. He stared at Mitchell who hadn't bothered with heating his plate.

"Cold pizza," George said. He feigned a shudder. "It's unnatural; it's like…eating a dead animal."

Annie pondered the statement. "Aren't all animals dead when you eat them? Present company excluded, of course."

Mitchell choked a bit and swallowed the bite in his mouth. "I don't eat live animals!"

George seemed to take that as an affront. "And I do?"

"I don't know," Mitchell answered, looking bewildered. "You were the one complaining about 'it' eating stuff that made you chuck-up."

George shook his head. "I-I, don't think that counts."

"Nooo," Annie said, with a tilt of her head. "I'm pretty sure it does."

"No, no. _I_ am not it…_it_ is not me. I don't know everything it's doing while I'm running around out there."

Mitchell paused in the middle of chewing. "You do know how mad that sounds, right?"

"I don't think that sounds-," George stopped himself and his escalating vocal pitch dropped. "All right, yes. Look, why are we even on this topic?"

Annie answered honestly. "You started it."

The microwave timer went off and George retrieved his plate. "Well, then I'm finishing it. I'm taking my pizza and I'm going to take a shower-"

Annie grinned at Mitchell. "Won't it get soggy?"

"And then," George said, ignoring her. "I'm going to bed, which is where I should have been…" He pushed up the sleeve of the borrowed jacket to check his watch but ended up staring at the blood-stained bandage before he remembered Mitchell still had the watch in his pocket. "Well…a while ago."

Annie sat up at the sight of the bandage. "What is that!"

"It's nothing," George said. He left the kitchen and Annie looked at Mitchell.

"What is that?"

Mitchell wore a haunted expression. "He was bitten."

()()()()

Though the bathroom door was open Annie sat curled against the wall outside it, listening. Whilst George was showering, Mitchell had told her the events of the evening and suggested she give George a little space before she went "all Mother Hen" on him. Now the boys were both in the bathroom whilst Mitchell properly bandaged their friend's arm.

As the two men talked, Annie visualized them in her mind's eye. Mitchell perched on the edge of the tub, George on the seat of the toilet, each doing what they always seemed to be trying to perfect—Mitchell watching over a friend and George worrying.

"Once we're done here," Mitchell said, "I'll run over to the hospital and get your backpack. Should be able to score a round of antibiotics as well."

George didn't reply but Annie could visualize his anxious expression and Mitchell replied to the unasked question.

"I'll be honest, George, I really don't know." Mitchell breathed a laugh, "But better safe than sorry, right? Right, Annie?" he called.

He'd known she was there the entire time. She rolled onto her knees to peek around the corner. "Can I get anybody a cup of…hot water?"

()()

Showered and with his arm freshly bandaged, George padded down the hall and into his room. He knew she was right behind him. He stopped beside his bed and turned to her but she breezed right past him and was peering around the window blinds to the street below.

"I'm going to sleep now," George said, feeling like he was addressing a child.

Annie turned from the window and smiled happily. "As you should. I'll be fine. I don't mind just sitting here." She dropped into a high-backed green chair at the foot of his bed and curled her legs underneath herself.

George stood there watching her for a few seconds. "Did Mitchell tell you to watch me?"

"No…maybe…yes, a little. He just said, 'Keep an eye on him'."

"Look," George said, exasperated, "I don't need a nanny, all right? I just need…some sleep."

He knew she meant well but he'd had a long night of being watched. She showed a little apologetic frown and nodded before unfolding one leg toward the floor. "But," George added. "I guess a little company for a bit would be all right."

Annie's beaming smile reminded him that some types of watching were comforting. Very comforting indeed.

()()

Whispering voices pulled him to consciousness.

"He all right?" Mitchell asked.

"Yeah," Annie said. From the direction of her voice she was still seated in the green chair. "I think he fell asleep pretty quick. You get the antibiotics?"

"Yeah, but I hate to wake him."

"He's already awake," George said, rolling over and reaching for his glasses. Light spilled into his room from the hallway.

"Good," Mitchell said, " 'cause I brought you some drugs." He rattled the pill bottle in his hand. "And I picked up some milk and tea. Maybe I can sucker Annie into making some?"

She sprung up. "I'm always happy to be suckered by you!" Her smile faltered. "That sounded…not right, at all." She pointed toward the hall as she headed for the door. "I'm just going to go put the kettle on."

George dropped back onto his pillow. "Ow."

Mitchell winced in sympathy. "The head?"

"Yes. And the wrists…and the arm…and the pride." George instantly regretted the last part when he saw his friend's furrowed brow.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mitchell lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Nothing, forget it." George pulled off his glasses and draped his bandaged arm across his eyes.

"George."

It took him a moment to force the words out. "I could have gotten you killed tonight."

"Is that how you see it?" Mitchell was clearly surprised. " 'cause from where I was sitting I'd say you _kept_ me from gettin' killed, several times over."

Silence enveloped the small room and they could hear Annie moving about the kitchen—the clink of spoons, the refrigerator door opening and closing. George lifted his arm from his eyes and watched Mitchell whilst he studied the unlabeled pill bottle in his hand. A slip of light from a streetlamp snuck around the edge of the window blinds and illuminated half of the vampire's face.

"I heard Ian tell Andy about the Cornwall Tavern," George said. "Now _that's_ a way to make a threat, they didn't even look at me after that." He thought he saw the corners of Mitchell's mouth tighten. "But I couldn't help think if our positions had been switched… I wouldn't have had anything like that."

Mitchell looked stunned. "And I _never_ want you to. Don't you get it, George? That sort of thing is exactly what I want to keep you away from. You and Annie both. I'm not proud of those things, but if I have to use that reputation to protect what's most important to me, then I'll use it."

With a heavy sigh he rested his forearms on his knees and stared at the floor. "I tell myself that I'm not that man anymore but…I feel like he's just a minute behind me. Hell, sometimes I feel like he's a minute in front just waiting for me to catch up. So I do my best to ignore those two minutes and focus on the middle one. The one I'm in."

He shifted his weight to fold his right leg onto the bed and the streetlamp now lit his full face. "It's been living and working with you that gives me the motivation and strength to live in this minute." A hint of a smile played on his lips. "Being human isn't about kicking arse and taking names. It's about being the best person you can be. And without you, without Annie, I couldn't do that. "

The floor took his focus again and he shook his head as if trying to brush away images of that 'what if'; however, a second later he sat up and smacked George on the leg. "So just put away the guilt…and take your pills."

The bottle hit George in the chest before he had time to react. "Ow." He rubbed the spot where the pills bounced off but he knew it was obvious the throw hadn't hurt.

"You know," Mitchell said, rising, "maybe that could be your secret weapon…Jewish Werewolf guilt—especially powerful during a full moon after someone hasn't called or come over in a long while."

George reached to the floor, scooped up a slipper and pitched it at his friend's head. Mitchell was gone before the slipper cleared the spot where he'd stood. Smiling, George laid his head back on his pillow and waited for Annie to appear with the tea.

_fin_

* * *

Final A/N: (Because I visualize [and subsequently write] my stories like episodes I thought it would be tongue-in-cheeky to include as a Deleted Scene a teensy Mitchell bit that I wrote and liked but later took out.) _To heighten suspense in a later scene, Mitchell's speech at the end of this one was edited out. James the driver has just seen his boss's car drive away and Mitchell tries to fill in the blanks._

"Hey, because he what?" repeated Mitchell. He lit his own cigarette and handed the lighter back to James who tucked it away. When he showed his hand again, it held a .40 caliber pistol.

"Because he needed me to fill in for him...who the hell are you?"

Mitchell stepped back. "Jesus, what _is_ it with you Southampton vampires and guns?"

James grabbed the front of Mitchell's shirt and pressed the barrel to his heart. "Who are you!"

Emotionally wrung out, Mitchell offered back desert-dry sarcasm. "I'm the poor berk who's already been shot once tonight, or did you not notice the hole in the blood-stained shirt? Have ya _ever_ been shot, James? It hurts. A lot. And I'd really rather not experience it again so soon. Oh, and in case you're curious, the guy that shot me is part of the crew who just redecorated the inside of that 300,000 quid car with your boss."

James's grip went slack and he studied Mitchell's ruined t-shirt. A lost expression filled his eyes as he tucked the gun away. "What the hell is going on?"

Mitchell slung an arm over his shoulder. "C'mon, I'll explain on the way."


End file.
